From the Schoolhouse
My Virginia Beach City Public School class was full as usual. There were 36 kids fresh from the weekend with little interest in academia. I stood and listened to their idle conversations that played like spindrift on an ocean beach. Just as I was about to get them quiet and started on the fundamentals of the Legislative Branch, a school guidance teacher knocked on my door. Oh great, I thought, another interruption. Standing beside her was a smallish boy with troubled, battle-hardened eyes. I learned that he was fresh from the inner city of Chicago where he had witnessed the brutal murder of several of his family members. As I listened to the counselor whisper to me a litany of horrors that overshadowed this little 8th grader, I wondered how such cruelties could befall one so young. Eventually, his guardian left, and I ushered the boy to his seat. He was so far behind. I didn’t know where to start. He didn’t know his password. He couldn’t open his computer. He glared at me. And another day of teaching began…
From the Pulpit
I preached Sunday on the short text, “For nothing will be impossible with God” (Luke 1:37). I wanted to show you what this looks like in Greek.
Ready? v. 37 ὅτι οὐκ ἀδυνατήσει παρὰ τοῦ Θεοῦ πᾶν ῥῆμα.
There is a certain quiet beauty to the Greek text. It whispers in subtle shades that often get overlooked in the rush of the sermon. Let me slow it down and translate this for you:
When you stand very close to God–right up next to him like he’s your closest friend–every word He speaks to you will not be burdened with hints of impossibility.
I just thought you might like to hear some of the Greek music I hear when I read the Greek of this verse. In other words, all of God’s words to us are possible–never impossible.
From the Pew
After the service two weeks ago, I stepped down from my lofty perch and began talking to Danielle, an older woman who always sits closest to the front. As we talked, she told me something I could hardly believe. She said she used to be a teacher in Virginia Beach and that she had taught for one year in my very school–Lynnhaven Middle School.
“What did you teach?” I asked her a bit nonplussed.
She replied, “I taught Latin.” And that’s when I realized just how small this world really is. Thanks, Danielle. Latina est gaudium.
Farewell until next time:
Don’t forget to listen to the latest sermon in a nutshell at my site:
www.Blaktiepress.com. Just click a blog link on the right (or left) and leave me a message.
Dr. David R. Denny
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